Humming in the New Year

Attempting to write again feels much  like an attempt to catch Niagra Falls with a teaspooon. But here goes. Perhaps if I can do this and keep it up on a fairly regular basis, I will explain the past few months. Right now, I'm not inclined to go into all that. No I was not in jail, not in a hospital, pretty much just living my life in a medicated state. Some may see that as a good thing. I'm not so sure.

It has snowed for the 2nd time in two months. I've been inside. I had planned to spend the week-end in bed anyway. Got up on Monday before dawn as usual, was in the middle of drinking the wake me up cup and a notice trailed across the tv screen that almost everything, including the plantation where I work, was closed. It's now been two days. I have yet to go outside. Funny thing about work. I complain about it but I really don't know what else to do with myself. My head seems permanently stopped at a red light. For the past couple of hours I've played  "Gimme the chicken" with the dog and made a drowsy attempt to clear away clutter upstairs. Upstairs feels like a different country. My most oft visited terrain is downstairs where my comforts are. I usually go to work, enter the house through the garage in the evening and exit the same way the next morning, without ever going upstairs. This is my routine for months on end.  Instead of paying mortgage on a 5 bedroom money pit, I should just rent a room. I have passed the stage of feeling entitled to the things my parents could not afford when I was a child. It is impossible to 'scale down' a large house. You can't put the rooms away and even empty rooms demand upkeep. However, my rooms are not empty, I am like all those pitiful souls you see on the HGTV shows where outsiders come in to clean your house because you just can't let go of all those size tens and in my case 12's and 14's you will never ever wear again.

I do spend a great amount of time downstairs. I thought I wanted to be surrounded by wall to wall books and music. I thought I wanted a sturdy platform bed, a white ceiling fan and a big wicker chair, the perfect writer's retreat. None of what I thought would happen has happened. I am not reading. I am not writing. I spend hours flipping through my NetFlix Queue which is loaded with movies about serial killers and documentaries about the fashion world. The books and their serious titles seem to mock me from their shelves.

It has nagged me for months that I am not writing. Then again, I couldn't. All thoughts were somewhere 'out there.' I've even tried closing my eyes real tight, clenching my teeth and fists, to muster the familiar angst that once fueled my creative musings. No luck. All the rage has been replaced with a sort of placid acceptance and hummedy drummedness. Hmmmm. Maybe I'm not creative at all. Maybe I was just depressed. Mebbbeee.

The snow is melting. Somewhere the trolls who work for the gas company are counting my therms. What do I have to look forward to; a huge bill at the end of the month. Hummedy Drummedy.